Roses

I arrived just as theywere making your bed; I thought,“They've moved him,” but no,you were dead. Someone elsewas coming in. Your sisters had left.

As the attendant finished cleaning upand I was about to turn away,I noticed on the table, a Red Rose teabag—and I smiled. Your friend Jim wouldalways send you a box of them,and on each tag, like an advent calendarhe'd pasted small pictures of porn under each rose.

Your laugh used to startle the nurses.I was going to stay in the room, askquestions but I just left, without a “Why?”

I went home and made my bed. But I laythere thinking of you, of having just missed you,of the few minutes of breath I might have savedhad I rushed, or taken the train instead.And try as I might I could not cry.

Instead I began to laugh, hearing in my headyour words: “Oh lord, darling, look at these!”And then, your command “Make me some tea!”Thinking of you, funny ghost, I rose from my bed.I looked at my life. I took my meds.“Dear boy, I will,” I said.